


Graveyard Shift

by Nobodyhasblindedme



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Alternate Universe - Tokyo Ghoul, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Alternate Universe - Wings, Blood and Injury, Demons, Drabble Collection, Multi, True Mates, alternate universe - centaurs, aviens, might get violent check the tags, supernatural creatures au collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2018-05-02 10:26:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5244839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nobodyhasblindedme/pseuds/Nobodyhasblindedme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a collection of supernatural/magic/fantasy aus. Some of the drabbles may be part of the same 'verse, but not large enough to warrant their own full fic. Now up: MORE AVIEN JEARMIN SOULMATES AU!! after like thirty years aaaa</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hello, little Beasts

The children, if one could even call them that, were an unsightly amalgamation. Animal pieces melded to human parts seemingly at random, horns and antlers and protruding bone spurs; multi colored eyes that tracked his movements between them with a deadly predator focus. None of them wore clothing, even those who had no fur to hide their shame. They glared at him from where they all stood, trapped behind the iron or silver bars of their prisons. Strangely enough, all were silent - Nile would be lying if he said he'd anticipated this. In his prior experience, demons, particularly their spawn, were mouthy things. Bragging, screaming, howling, cursing to corruption everything pure and raucously celebrating destruction. He'd seen such enough to know.

This lot, however, was not. The pacing man stopped in front of what he had surmised to be their little ringleader's cell. Well, 'little' was a relative term. In fact, the hellspawn inside was anything but small. Broad-shouldered, strong-jawed, muscles enough to make a trained knight emerald with envy. His horns were thick and ram-like, curled around his ears twice. Short bristly blond hair transitioned into a thick mane reaching half-way down it's back, though there was little else to cover him.The male demon met Nile's eyes with a lazy sort of contempt. An arrogance many of the man's quarry carried but soon lost upon their capture and immediate death sentence.

The human was neither impressed nor fooled with the calm demeanor. He'd seen firsthand the damage this individual could do - smashing to rubble a town's gate and foundation like an acorn under the wheel of a cart. Nile gestured, and his personal assistant moved forward, brandishing a quill and leather-bound logbook. The young apprentice was shaking in his boots, casting nervous glances at the boxed beings, who seemed bemused by his meekness in their presence. He might have had good reason for the fear - only a few feet on either side were all that separated him from the monsters.

No matter - there was business to see to, and Nile was sure with time the lad would grow out of his hysteria. The hunter spoke clearly, enunciating as best as a human was able the language of Hell, hissed and coarse and maddening to listen to for long. Like the dying breath of world itself.

"Your name, creature."

The request itself was a mundane one, hardly out of place for persons introducing themselves. But these were demons. Names were a closely guarded familiarity. More oft was one to gain a false moniker made in mockery of he foolhardy enough to ask for it.They might even attack out of indignation. The male's expression didn't change much. A twitch of an eyebrow, a shifting of a clawed foot. The process was always the same. Out of the corners of his eyes, Nile could see his rather forward request had gathered the other demon's attentions. They watched him, a few muttering to themselves. He wasted little time - there were eleven of them to get through, after all. 

"Very well. I know you are all able to speak, but if you will not give me your names willingly, then I will take them by force."

Surprisingly, this statement once more gained little reaction, no more than the dark mumbles and shuffling already heard. The hunter's fists tightened where they were clasped behind his back. It irked Nile in a way he had nearly forgotten he could feel. Like schoolboy brushed to the side by his elder's more important discussions. Were these creatures so stupid as to be totally unaware of what was to become of them, even if he did gain their names? Were they so confident in their chaotic powers that the threat of being controlled like a puppet or killed was nothing?

Well. The hunter didn't let more of his frustrations show was he gestured for his assistant to come forward again, this time the boy bringing forth long loops of silver chain and heavy, immense collar. Nothing else would fit this titan of a demon, it's gold eyes staring at him and the implement with blank indifference. 

It seemed it would be a long night for all of them.


	2. Wicked Weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean hates three things at the moment: The weather, as it hasn't stopped raining since they came to town, Marco's barf-tastic winter jacket, and loosing the monthly coin toss. 
> 
> Be a vampire they said. It will open countless horizons they said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this over the course of two days. Unbeta'ed, as usual, and really just the tip of the iceberg for this lot. I'm also experimenting with adding more dialogue to my stories.

"Tell me Marco, tell me truely...do you ever wonder how we got to this point?" 

"If you mean, do I take hours out of my day to mope reminice about all the kinda shitty human things we might have ended up doing had we not been Turned while whining at me all the while, then no. I do not." 

The only answer the man recived was a half-hearted raspberry blown in his direction, and another long strech of silence as the two creatures continued their vigil. 

And it really was almost purely silence. The northeastern woods of New England in mid-fall were fairly empty of a majority of the summer birds, not to mention the cold that wrapped around eveything, stifiling in its own right. And wet. Constantly...moist. Jean shifted, feeling the wet bark of the tree branch dig into the seat of his pants, already near-waterlogged from the never ending drizzling of the northern coast. If he wanted to, he could complain about that to his companion, if or no other reason then to pass the time. Except, Marco would probably throw his shoe at him. Again. Shooting a look to the right, Jean eyed the tree next to his. 

For anyone else, the moonless night in the shadows of the trees would cloak even the relective tape on a roadworker's vest, but for Jean, Marco's chosen atire might as well have been holding a lit roadflare an inch from his face. Why his covenmate had chosen THAT absolutely horrid neon pink jacket out of the selection of nice dirt brown or baby puke green ones at the hightway reststop, Jean didn't have the energy or want to question. Gumbling to himself, Jean tugged the hood of his own neutral blue windbreaker higher over his head. Not that it id much good, he was already unpleasantly damp and had been for the better part of a week. 

Marco for the most part seemed imperceptive to Jean's misgivings, or just able to expertly ignore them after so long putting up with his friend's attitude, keeping dark eyes locked on the strech of road a few yards ahead of their perch. For the better, actually. After all, they were here with a purpose, and Marco enjoyed being wet and chilly about as much as the other. 

"I think you're just mad 'cause you lost," the boy said midly, glancing breifly to the left.

"That coin has two tail sides, you can't convnce me otherwise," the other scoffed, swinging his leg off the treelimb to kick idally at the dead autumn foliage. Sitting straighter to warily peer down the road, Jean sighed or what felt like the umpteenth time that evening. 

"C'mon, Marco, it's dead." 

"There's always someone." 

Jean rolled his eyes, face contorting into a grimace. "It's the ass-end of nowhere at," there was a mechanized beep as Jean pushed a button on his digital watch, "two thirty-six in the morning. Seriously, who the fuck would be out?" 

The freckled male huffed, turning on the other, face pinched in clear annoyance at the constant griping of his companion and having to remove his eyes from their target. 

"If you want to go back to a road closer to town or even back into town itself then fine. I'll pay my resprects to the charred bones and silver bullet casings in the morning where they've burried what's left of you at a crossroads then, shall I?" 

His groan was long and loud, bouncing off the trees and distant hills or seconds after. "That was NOT what I meant and you know it -  we've been here for two hours!" Jean slumped back sulkily against a trunk of the tree though, making no move to leave. "Just becuase people out here are more inclined to have guns and beleive stories..." 

Marco's glare was withering, even in the dark of the nighttime forest, and for a second, Jean almost regretted his careless words, gaze flickering to the healed burns decorating the other's cheek and shoulder that would never fully fade. 

"A gun is a gun," he muttered lowly, "whether it fires silver or lead, and we've waited for longer before." 

Jean's voice was incredulous but thankful for the deviation from...harder subjects.  

"Yeah, when we KNEW there was going to be something worth waiting for!" The blond exclaimed.  He then leaned forward over the branch, eyes pleading with his companion who now looked a strange mixture of resigned and bemused.  

"Marco, buddy, person I turn to when I'm in financial crisis," that earned him a stifled snigger at least both knowing full well neither of them had need of monetary transactions anymore, "I saw a boondocks bar on the way in, open late - come on man, it's late, there are drunken hillbillies aplenty - pleeeaaasse?" 

"This isn't even the right region where hillbillies are a thing..." Marco mumbled, a crack in his will forming at Jean's nagging insistance. Having sensed this, the blond leaned over farther, until he could almost touch the branch the other had crouched on. Jean opened his mouth to continue his plea, hoping he could at least get Marco back to the rundown little inn so they could dry off before coming up with a new gameplan as this night had obviously been a bust, when searing bright beams momentarity lit up their hiding place, sending both Marco and Jean hissing and scurrying back into the shadows of the canopy. 

Desperatly blinking back the stinging left behind by the car's headlights, Jean's first glance at Marco revealed the other in a similar nearly-blinded state, but the triumphant grin tugging at the corners of the freckled man's mouth was unmistakable. "God damn you, freckles..." the blond mumbles, even as he creeps forward on the branch towards the road. His eyes will ache like a bitch for a while and he mostly moves forward by feel and sound but don't have a lot of time if they're really going to pull this off successfully tonight, which it seems they are. Marco only smirks, readying himself. 

"I still say you just don't know how to lose." 

"Couldn't win - rigged coin." 

"Sore. Loser." 

Jean didn't have the luxury of answering when the car was only a few meters away. Tensing his legs, Jean leapt on a step forward and suddenly, there was nothing beneath him. Not the wet bark of the tree or the forest floor - just air, whipping  past his face and catching under his jacket. His jump was calculated perfectly - Jean almost never missed his mark anymore. Not that it was difficult to when it was so blaringly big. 

For a split second, Jean caught sight of  the faces of a man and woman behind the wheel, illuminated by the dashboard, before his body hit the unforgiving chrome of the hood with a series of rather unsettling thumps ad cracks. Thanks to both his and the car's momentum, the creature went flying right over the windshield and landed awkwardly behind the car. He couldn't be sure, but Jean thought he might have heard Marco hiss in a worried breathe from his hiding spot. When he fell, he himself might have cried out a little - hey, his bones were tougher then just about anything on earth and healed almost instantly but that didn't mean breaking them didn't hurt - before lying still and silent.

He'd ended up facing away from the car, staring with 'lifeless' eyes down the long, dark expanse of road and woods the vehicle had emerged from. (For whatever reason Marco insisted he could pull off the thousand yard stare better, which is why he seemed to be the one to most frequent this particular position.) 

The car skidded on the rainy asphalt, the occupants leaping out before it had even finished coming to a stop. Footsteps reached him, as did the panicked babbling of a woman and the distressed rumbling of a man, probably her husband. Just under that, Jean heard his companion moving through the trees, out of earshot of the pair, getting into position. 

Hands hovered over him, trembling, afraid to touch the creature laying splayed sickly in the road. Jean clenched his teeth. He could feel the heat of their skin through the rough material of the widbreaker, so close he could smell it, hear the hypnotizing pulsing of their beating hea - 

"God - Oh my god, Ian, call someone! He's not - he's-" Damn, the woman was practically hysterical now. Jean's half-lidded eyes gleamed dully when the man - Ian - pulled out his cellphone, no doubt to call the proper authorities and deal with what would inevitably lead to a hit-and-run incident displayed proudly in the Sunday papers. After all, news travled annoyingly fast around small towns. 

Luckily, Marco was faster. 

The man wouldn't see anything more then a glimps of a pink and black shape careening out of the shadows lining the road, before a weight settled on his back driving him down to cold pavement and then...nothing. 

The woman had time to choke on the beginnings of a scream but it gurgled weakly to a halt in her throat as the man she presumed dead clamped his jaws down tight. 

The two creatures heald their positions for long, long moments, waiting until muscles relaxed, heads lolled forward and breathing evened. Marco was the first to drop his bite, selfconciously licking up the few droplets of blood that had escaped the wound on the back of Ian's neck. Jean loosened his jaw, catching the woman and laying her down. Siting huh properly, the creature groaned as he felt something shift back into place from the fall. 

He didn't want to face Marco yet. Jean might have been a bad loser, but Marco, for all everyone seemed to praise him for his angelic qualities, was really, quite the terrible winner. 

Less then twenty minutes had passed before Jean and Marco had finished all they could take. The amount they'd need to take each attack would continue to decrease with time, but as they partook it felt like singing - a bright vibrancy coursing throught them that was addicting at the best of times, as lovely as a celestial light they and their kind had shunned in exchange for the chance to see an age pass. To feel so...so warm in a way so sparcely expirienced nowadays...

The man and woman were stowed away back into the car and the heating left on. They would wake up sore, minor bruises that would fade faster then normal leaving nothing to back up their ludicris tale and with skull-splitting headaches confused as all getout...but alive. 

Both creatures were aware of those who took it as a mark of honor to claim a victim wholely...but Jean and Marco and those of their ilk had never been ones to walk a beaten path. Thinking of which - 

"They're suppose to meet us tomorrow, right?" 

Having slipped back into the inky black that bore them, starting on the long run back to town, Marco's nod would have been unperceivable, save for that damn jacket. 

"Yes, around about dawn." Almost as an afterthought, "Oh yeah, Mikasa's bringing Eren. He's finished his latest quarter of training with the Legion. She also mentioned, and I quote, that 'nothing or no-one was going to come between him and his freckled savior.' " 

Jean was sure his curses could have woken even the vampire-venom drugged. 


	3. Genus, Species, Ichthyosapian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Animal-like merfolk! Animal-like merfolk! ANIMAL-LIKE MERFOLK!!!
> 
> Armin and Hanji are biologists studying the enigmatic creatures that roam the waters off the coast of their town, and come across a new face one day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed this au, so badly, and since badly anyone in any fandom writes it like so, I've decided to fill in the gaps myself.

The Mers were a peculiar bunch. Armin supposed this perception was due to the fact they all looked so...incredibly human. Their faces and upper bodies, as modified as they were with the spines and gills and scales and all, were still very human-like.

It was a real adjustment at first, just being around them. True to Hanji's explainations, the lingual separation between human and Mer was a definite leap. Most of Mer language was based on a complex mixture of body language and minor vocalizations, some of which couldn't even be heard with the human ear, to say nothing of the complete differences in note and tone. Infact, most of the time the Mer's expressions almost never changed from a perpetually bored or blank look, even while in a good mood. It was all in the body.

Molbit had once compared it to talking to someone who's eyebrows never moved (in this case, it almost literally true.) Armin was inclined to agree.

Yes, that was probably one of the toughest things to get used to, Armin thought. The lack of facial expressions, or mixing up what they were trying to express by trying to contextualize their language into human terms when it plain and simply couldn't be. 

Smiling was a big no-no, he'd found out early on. The baring of one's teeth was a clear threat display. Little Krista had been wary of him for weeks after a slip-up, and Jean had tried to pick a fight with him more than once since then. Armin also found he had to constantly remind himself never to let Mikasa push him around (literally) as she was still trying to do occasionally, and make sure to never cross directly in front of Erwin, as that was seen as a challenge to the alpha mer's authority. Steering clear of Levi in general was a given, though the grumpy loner mers' spitting hisses and threat displays never seemed to deter Hanji from studying his bite scars and badly torn fins, attempting to interact with him whenever possible...

And that was just the big stuff, never mind all the minute nuances of fin-flicks, color changing, and scale-flashing that counted for most of their communication otherwise. Armin had a few theories of his own as to why the Mers were so vocally quiet, outside of trying to communicate with humans; perhaps they had more color cones in their eyes, and could see subtle differences in each other's movements humans were simple incapable of perceiving. Maybe more of their vocalizations were on frequencies humans couldn't hear then then they previously thought - it was possible. Dolphins, whales and even house-cats did it. Or perhaps electro-thermal signals measured with special organs below the skin like sharks. 

So many questions...Armin supposed he was beginning to see why working with these creatures was something of a life-long dedication, as Hanji and Molbit had so made it. The longer he was here, the more he learned and witnessed and became entangled and enchanted with this whole new world of unknowns.

A strange world Armin inhabited now, for sure.

But something was...more off then normal, today. For the few seconds Armin remained still, looking out over the railing at the dark pool of water he knew lead down and out of the underwater cave, he realized something indeed was VERY off.

Normally, when the large overhead lights were turned on, the pool of water sloshing up the small concrete shore was clear-greenish in color, sometimes brighter, in calmer weather. Today it was not.

Today it was red.

"M - Mx. Zoe..."

The scientist in question had rushed with the armload towards the spectacle spread out on the stone floor, an expression grimmer then Armin had ever seen on their normally cheery face. This didn't bode well then, he supposed. Armin himself hung back, staying on the platform above, and would say he had good reason.

He was...big. If the blond had to make an estimate, he'd say the male measured nine feet long, tail-tip to headcrown, and that was disregarding the sheer bulk of the creature. His human torso was dark, at least, darker then the pale skins of the Freedom pod, smatterings of even darker freckles and scale patches littering his upper back, leading down into the tougher, thicker armor scales surrounding the folded dorsal, the fin a deep black-brown color that was near impossible to discern from the alarmingly bright red washing about him. Armin felt sick with the confronting sight of the huge, obviously badly hurt merman. Hanji was fussing, their monolauges to no-one a near constant buzz in the air now as they tried feutally to turn the great beast over.

"Armin!" he jolted at the sudden shout, but followed their pointing finger towards a supply closet off to the side. The other side of the creature. "Go get me the fist aid kit, the blue-marked one. And call Molbit!"

"Hanji..it's not..." He didn't know if he could say it, that simple word. It wouldn't matter if he said it or not, if it was true, but for some reason, the dreadful word wouldn't come, stuck in his throat like a fishbone, choking. Hanji was thankfully not having any of their little assistant's hesitancy today, though, and cut off his anxieties there and then.

"No, he's not, but he might be very soon if you dont scoot your boot, Armin! Move!" they crisply shouted, not sparing him a glance from where they were pressing their jacket into lacerations on the male's side.

Armin had his special cell in hand before they'd finished the sentence.

~oOo~

"Hold his gills down! And keep that pressed tight to the gash, their blood is a lot more waterey then ours, he'll bleed out faster then anything."

Armin didnt bother asking why such a thing was necessary, he just complied and pressed a damp towel to the four long slits on either side of the mer's ribcage, feeling the strong resistance from the cartilage and muscles as they tried to stay open against his hands. Molbit came to his rescue though, with as much as Hanji was too concerned with keeping the beast alive to offer much by way of explinations.

"He's trying to breath like he's still under water, see? His gills are open, but that means his secondary lungs and respiratory system aren't."

Armin blinked, then looked down at the towel, still feeling the strain of flesh."He's suffocating himself?" He muttered in a question to no-one. How utterly morbid. But..."But, won't blocking his only open airways be more dangerous? Now he's not getting any any air at all!"

Hanji didn't look up from where they were weilding the bloody suture needle.

"The sudden lack of any oxygen at all will shock his system into overdrive. Hell, it might even wake him up."

Poor Molbit, looking green about the gills at the situation in general paled just a bit more."Mx. Zoe, you seem grossly unperturbed by that prospect..." 

Hanji simply shrugged, pulling another stitch tight and swiping away more blood caking on the scales. 

"I just don't want him to die if we can help it, and I'll tell you boys now, I'd rather have a screaming, raging merman who's awake and alive then one who died in his sleep because we simply didn't want to take a little risk. Keep the pressure on, Arlert!"

Armin jumped a bit, but reapplied the force he had lost while listening to his fellow biologist's speech. Under him, the beast was unmoving, for the most part, but after a minute, there was change, however small. Shudders and shivering began wracking the body, muscles in the upper torso twtiching and then spasoming. Oh god, what should he do, should he get out of the way, should he keep pressing, what -

The mer's eyes flew open, staring and wild for a few seconds of utter silence as no one moved, didnt dare so much as twitch, before that mouth, full to the brim with jagged teeth opened and began hacking. Deep, ragged jerks of breath, each bringing with it sickly pink mucus and water, lungs emptying themselves of whatever was keeping them closed. The horrible noises went on for a few moments, the force of some of the coughs causing the mer's fins to stiffen and rise, almost poking Molbit in the eye, but eventually, the beast wore itself out, head flopping back down onto the wet cement pathetically with a gurgle, body loose and limp.

Exhausted, no doubt... but breathing again. Armin, and the others felt they could actually do the same, now.

~oOo~

"Armin? You ok?"

The young biologist looked up, glancing over to his superior still drying their hands from washing off the blood. He supposed he should do the same, it cant be sanitary to leave the blood and muck dried on his arms...but the thought of leaving the new mer's side fed his reluctance.

Armin had sat himself cross-legged on the floor of the cave, the head of the new mer resting in his lap, breathing easy, if not a little wet still. His estimation for the beast's length had been correct, about eight and a half feet long and well over three hundred pounds of pure muscle. The face, now that he can see it properly free of blood and grime, is a friendly one. Softer, slightly round, and absolutely covered in freckles. Armin feels his face heat up, just a bit. Odd to think that something so far from actually being human could have such an effect...

"I'm fine, Hanji. Uh..I just - I mean, I guess I could but - " 

They smile, and wave his stuttered explanations off, used to it after so long working with Molbit. "That's alright, just so long as you remember to wash up later. And do be careful, dear."

"Huh?"

Hanji sighed, their smile turning rueful, darker.

"I think you and I both know what I mean."

Armin bowed his head a bit. Yes. Yes, he did. These creatures were not human, would never be human, for all their aesthetic similarities. The mer in Armin's lap was sleeping, its face and body relaxed to giving the impression of peacefulness and calm, when for all they knew it could be as nasty a mer as Levi (though Armin sincerely had a difficult time beleving this one, for all it's scars, could ever measure up to the great grouch of the Freedom pod.)

Still, Hanji had a point, a valid one.

"I'll be ok, Mx. Zoe. I mean, I stood up to Mikasa and Eren, right?"

His fellow biologist only hummed at him, cocking their head in thought. "I suppose. When you're done, if you could please join Molbit and I in the office?"

Armin nodded "Sure."

They left, the man listening to the sound of their boots tromping up the stairs to the observation deck then down the hallway, until it was just Armin, the dripping stalagmites echoing off the pool, and the wheezing of the sleeping mer.

Armin's hands continued to run over the scaled shoulders and back, still marveling even after all this time, that things like this were real. The main body was a very pretty dark pine green, the luminescent honey-gold splotches conglomerating into a solid color a foot from the base where tail met fluke. Soft frills protruded from wrist to elbow, the membrane so translucent Armin could make out the minescule blood-vessels below the skin. The same held true for the overly large dorsal and pectoral fins, all a very nice white-gold and prettily speckled, just like the mer itself. All in all, this was a very handsome creature, minus the horrible disfigurations and Armin would be a fool to think of it as anything less.

Even then, with the risen scars and what looked suspiciously like old burn wounds, Armin thought they gave the mer...character. Added a little more spice and wonder to an already wondrous person.

"Where have you been, huh?" Armin whispered, though he knew he would receive no answer. "You must be from a different place. I mean, just look at those pretty markings. Got nothing like that around here, unless you count Levi." he continued. It was true, the navy scaled spitefire of a mer certainly didn't match the coral-bright glistening colors the majority of the Freedom pod sported, and this new mer's spotted complexion stood out as well.

The young scientist sat a while in thought, drifting, hands smoothing over rubbery ear-membrane and coarse drying hair before another idea struck him, enough to speak aloud again.

"What should we call you?"

The ear beneath his hand twitched, as if the notion of a human name actually interested it, prompting Armin to smile a little. 

It was a valid thought, though. All the others around had names, and hell, if Armin didn't get to it first, Hanji would end up calling the poor thing something utterly ridiculous. But what would fit? 

Armin addmitted, eyebrows drawing in with concentration, the names he'd chosen for all the other mers had been a bit off the top of his head, not that it really mattered to the creatures who couldn't understand english anyway. Still, he wanted something good this time. Something that felt natural.

"How about...Dieter?"

Another ear twitch.

"Uh...Sawney? Ugh, no no, that's really horrible. Wouldn't call my dog that..."

Hmm...well, what was the main characteristics of this mer? He was big, but not too built, his human torso remaining well muscled but not incredibly bulky. Armin supposed if he were human, he'd stand at a fairly good height. The freckles were cute, but hardly something to glean a name from (unless he REALLY wanted to do the mer a disservice and name him Dot.)

Armin then considered the scars then. It sent sympathetic pangs through him to look at them too long...

All along the mer's right side, right down from his face to his hip fin, were pink lines and gouges, long healed, the newer ones overlapping the old in a ragged criss-crossed mess. Some of them looked natural, like the mer had simply gotten in a poorly-chosen fight and lost horribly, but others...all along the tail portion...they looked like someone had taken a filleting knife to the being in attempts to gain his skin or something equally horrible. Armin didn't persue the thought, however...

The mer had seen a lot, been through a lot, gone where none of the local population had been. Yet, he had survived and if he could speak human he would no doubt have wonderfully adventurous tales to tell about his travels. Armin suddenly recalled a book he had once read, a book full of tales of amazing places as told by a brave explorer.

"Polo...Marco Polo. Heh, he's kinda like you." 

The head underneath him moved, just a bit, the boy rearranging himself on Armin's lap so his torn right hipfin stuck up at the most rediculous angle, and gave a little grumble deep in his chest. Rather like a purr. Armin couldn't help but giggle a the sight of such a big, powerful creature acting like it was nothing more then an overgrown puppy.

"Ok then. Marco it is." Armin nodded to himself. The mer gave no indication if he'd heard the other boy, but when Armin gently laid his head on the ground a few minuted later to wash up and find Hanij and Molbit, the scientist thought, just for a moment that the beast - Marco - might have smiled.

Perfect fit.


	4. Set a Gait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've probably heard the saying "the truth from the horse's mouth", meaning you can tell the age and validity of the animal from looking at its teeth. 
> 
> Well...this is a little different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the amount of time we see these characters around horses you'd think there'd be more centaur aus in the fandom. Eh, this is my contribution anyway.

Jean hated Christmas. 

Actually - that was inaccurate. 

Jean hated holidays. 

Ofttimes the Lord and Lady's servants would spend weeks beforehand chattering about them, the events hosted by other lords and households being the talk of the staff for days before, and near impossible to sit up after the actual event when the good gossip ran the mill. From his place in the household, Jean heard it all one way or another. All the closed-door, underhanded deals, every sordid detail, no part of the whole process could Jean stand for long. 

Kind of ironic that he was standing right now, then. 

He idly pawed at the frozen cobblestones beneath his hoof - at least they'd remembered to have him reshod with shoes with iron cleats so he wouldn't slip, even if they were thinking more for their benefit then his - and tried to wrap his thin ornamental coat around his upper torso a little better. Looking up, Jean was met with an absolutely glorious crystal night sky, the silver stars dappling the inky black where the cosmos had carelessly thrown them. A sharp wind down the narrow street quickly drew him from his gazing, the dun scowling harshly as his shook in his fur. Clear nights were pretty, but so damn cold. Unable to suppress the little stamp of a hoof, Jean chanced a glance up to the door of the fine house. Nothing. 

Jean wanted to scream, but his throat hurt...and honestly, he was just so tired. It was late, and the Lord and Lady would probably enjoy the festivities offered by the party long into the early morning without a care or second thought. Jean twisted a little to try and relieve some of the pressure on his neck from the leather harness hiked up to new levels of cruelty (or as They would say, style) for the fine event. The higher the arch of his back the better, supposedly. The collar was padded a bit, but he'd been standing here for hours now with his neck and back vertical and stiff as a board. 

Yet another reason to curse this infernal day of the year. 

The twitching of Jean's discomfort had jingled his harness though, alerting tonight's cabbie boy to his plight, and Jean jerked as his flank was met with a sharp tap of the cane. 

"Quit movin', Leggy. The res' o' the lads 'ere ain't complainin'." 

If he'd had the ability, Jean would have turned to send a hellish glare towards the little snot who had the audacity to tell HIM not to complain when he was wearing a heavy coat and scarf, knit gloves and a cap...but again, the leather straps prevented such a move. 

And Jean was fairly certain there was plenty of complaining from the other poor centaurs forced into this same dismal position for this night amongst many others of the whole long year. Glancing to the side, he felt a twinge of empathy for a tall, dark-coated fellow who'd had the misfortune of being tied up almost knee-deep in a snowbank. 

The unusual feeling (for Jean anyway, who almost preffered to ignore all others like him if possible) didn't last long as the tall centaur's cabbie, a sturdily built blonde boy, came around the corner of the road carrying two cups of something hot, the steam drifting on the harsh little breezes. He gave one of them to centaur chained to the coach, the two exchanging small smiles and whispers. As if they were friends out for an evening strole, rather then a slave at the very real mercy of his handler. Jesus, it was like they didn't even care that the entire street full of coaches, the other centaurs and their drivers were probably watching and putting such a quaint little friendship in danger.

 Jean turned away, positively and unapologetically sick with envy at the scene. The bitter cold of the night seemed to only be an extension of what was festering and freezing in the bay centaur boy's heart. The chill permeated his skin and causing the shiny steel of the chains binding him to the cab to cut into his wrists and arms. 

Jean hurt, and he hated. The hated being forced to endure the cold of the long winter night without so much as a body blanket. He hated the frivolous celebrations about nothing at the expense of others who could not defend themselves. He hated the Lord and Lady he'd been sold like an animal to when he was so young he could do nothing but sob hysterically for his mother for days after.

He hated humans. 

Jean stood there, stiff and cold for an undetermined amount of time, but after a long while, the clock tower deeper into the city chimed one long melodic note, signaling the second hour of December 26 - another Christmas come and gone.

A pit of sorrow and lonesomeness so deep and dark opened in Jean's gut, and suddenly, he knew nothing could compare to this. The harness didn't matter, the apathetic words of his driver, the cold, the two idiots still speaking lowly to each other across the street totally unaware and unashamed...Who cared anymore. 

The centaur stood there, just staring at the far side of a townhouse (his collar didn't really allow him to turn his head with much success but forward or up.) Jean feared he might have cried, but he was sure the tears would have frozen to his face. And that would't suit the Lord and Lady at all, would it? Though, Jean wasn't sure he could help the wheezy sigh that escaped him.

\--

The party was winding down, finally. Jean had somehow managed to fall into a light doze, despite the press on his windpipe and the splitting ache in his joints from standing on stone for so long when the doors opened and guests of the party began decending  the stairs to climb into their carriages and head home. The states of these people were varied after a night of frivolity; some perfectly well, while others were quite obviously intoxicated. One man dressed in a dark suit, top-hat tilted at a dangerous angle on his head and dragging his walking cane, approached the carriage attached to the dark centaur and the blonde driver. He stumbled a bit, catching himself on the shoulder of the tall creature who jolted nervously at the touch, almost knocking the man into the dirty slush on the street. Idiot, Jean thought tiredly, not sure himself whether he was referring to the man or the beast. 

The pull and twisting of his harness alerted him that his own Masters had come and were entering the carriage. They were talking animatedly to other well-to-do's hanging about outside on the steps, discussing the night's events as if they hand't just happened mere hours ago. Jean made sure not to listen to a word of it yet - no sense torchering himself with the endlessly cycling stories eh would get so...damn...sick of. 

A click of the door, the cabbie clambering onto the drivers seat and a sharp strike with the buggy whip and Jean forced his creaky limbs to bend and pump into action, leaving behind the party and the other centaurs sharing his plight for another year. 

Or at least until they called for him again.

 

\--

 

Pulling a carriage came with a number of challenges, all of which Jean had had to face and conquer by his own ingenuity, wits and sheer stubborness. Clopping down the meandering countryside roads at least gave his mind something else to focus on besides his own grief and pain, even if the leather straps bit into his skin worse now that he was putting strain on them. After a half hour of pulling the Lord and Lady, the movement of Jean's body had warmed him some, allowing his cold jolting joints to move easier and get home to the relatively warm stable and his wonderful winter-issue blankets faster. His breath puffed out before his eyes before trailing off into the darkness - Jean was suddenly struck with the image of the massive steam engine he'd seen on one occasion, when he'd been taken to the railway station to bring home the Masters' eldest son for a visit. It hadn't been a particularly fun trip - the Young Master had less tact then most when it came to dealing with 'Taurs. Jean was legitimately ready to sing when the teenaged bastard finally bid his farewells to the Estate and returned to college.

The crunch of gravel under his shod feet and the wheels marked Jean's journey for the night ended, the grand house looming out of the darkness, ghostly pale and only half-way illuminated by the lanterns. Jean remembered first seeing the great whitewashed building through teary eyes and sorrow-laiden heart from the tiny windows of the trailer that had taken him away from his dam. There were still tears in his eyes now, but they are only from the cold wind as he trotted, and incessant ache of his leathers.

It takes minutes for the Lord and Lady to remove themselves from the cab - and minutes more for them to tiredly dredge up the many steps to the door where their faithful butler is waiting to welcome them home. Even so, it feels like so much longer to Jean who only barely stops himself from unbecomingly pawing the ground with his impatience. The stable is waiting! 

His frustrations were continued that night as he was led away to the carriage house rather then towards his precious barn, and proceeded into the arduous process of untacking. Jean did however give a groan of pure ecstasy as his collar was removed and he was finally able to bend forward, the bones in his neck and human back popping. 

Make no mistakes, Jean hated life here - he supposed he'd hate it anywhere even if he wasn't forced into the position he was in. Humans, in his expert opinion, were generally of the same heart and mind. Though well-aware his situation was probably one of the better ones, having witnessed the lash-scared flanks and broken, knobby knees of the poor cart creatures he passed sometimes in the street...fancy harnesses and the large green paddocks of his free time most certainly didn't negate the fact he was as much a slave as the others. A tug at his shackled arms was only some of just the physical proof. 

He hated humans and their domineering ways...but as quick, light steps tapped into the room where he was tired to the grooming posts, Jean thought he may have had to make a slight, very slight revisment to that thought. 

Even wearing his boots, the top of the man's head didn't quite reach the top of Jean's foreleg shoulder - but no-one would in their wildest dreams dare mention this...in his presence. Dark and severe, Levi ruled the running of the Lord and Lady's stables with a leadrope in one fist, and a crop in the other (of which a younger, greatly more unruly Jean had suffered the licks of more times then one cared to mention.) 

Tonight however, the man carried no tool of discipline; only a lead and a box of brushes. Jean's brushes. The centaur felt his body shiver at the sight of them, though not with the cold. Levi dropped the box on a stool and took out a rag, wiping down Jean's sweat-soaked body and removing flecks of foam from his light fur with small 'tsks' and hums. Jean couldn't help the sigh of real pleasure at the grooming when Levi switched to the stiffer brushes - say what you would about anyone else, this man knew how to brush! A jerk at his left shackle broke him off, however, looking back to find the short man sending him a tired glare, clearly wanting silence while he worked the beast over.

Ah yeah...the stableman had been awake as long as Jean, and would probably be up longer still dealing with Jean's tack - they had other hands to deal with it, but Levi usually insisted he be the one to take care of the centaur's, cleaning and oiling each piece to perfection. Whatever. All the better for Jean, the creature supposed. 

With his task soon done, Levi disappeared into another room, reappearing with a royal blue and white horse blanket. The slide of fabric over fur should have been a prickly nuisance, but despite his glower and prowling walk, Levi somehow always knew how to put it on just so that it wouldn't run against his coat the wrong way. In fact, there were a lot of things Levi knew how to handle that other human grooms just...didn't. 

The embroidered crest of the Estate, a pair of white wings crossing over each other in a bed of rose thorns against the blue blanket, settled against his hip, nimble fingers fastening the clasps quickly. Jean felt ten times warmer already. 

The isles of the stable were shadowed but Jean could have walked to his stall blindfolded. Levi's hands were still on his chains but even that weight didn't deter him from pulling ahead, almost trotting to get there. As the two move down the corridor, the Master's other beasts of burden move about in their stalls, the horses grumbling and shifting at the intrusion so early in the morning. If he'd had any energy left at this point, Jean would feel jealous on some level of the simpleminded animals that were his near-constant companions. To them, this life was good and they knew of no other way to live. Cannot comprehend that their unusual herdmate is neither with them, nor against them.

Ohh...blessed, blessed warm sawdust - as much as Jean's loathing for humanity swells during nights spent as this one has been, he cannot help but feel at least a grain of gratitude at the stable staff's attendance to his needs. Well, he supposes, too engrossed with working the heat of the indoors into his body to notice his groom attaching the manacles to the wall of the stall, with a man like Levi, nothing but the best would ever suit the Lord and Lady's property. Jean is too limp with fatigue by now to let the word sting him so. 

Also, Jean secretly suspects that even if the agitative little man beside him wasn't working for his Masters, he'd still abore any sub-par practices and care towards any equine being. 

As soon as Levi is sure the dun centaur is fully secured to the wall and is truly bedding down for the night, he steps out of the enclosed space, picking a key from the ring he keeps tied to his belt and locking fast the lower half of the stall door, then, with a last look in at Jean who only blinks owlishly at him, closes the top door, throwing the small room and the beast inside into inky darkness. The black is only offset by the moonlight from as small window on the far wall behind Jean, and the lamplight in the stable isle outside the stall, which is being extinguished by Levi as he leaves the stable for the night entirely. 

Jean settled on his long, gangly folded legs, shuffling as much as he can until the sawdust bunches under his body and against his coat in agreeable ways, the creature pulling the blanket a little tighter about himself. He leans forward, folding his arms and pillowing his head against them, staring off into the shadows while his eyes grow heavier and harder to keep focused. 

Jean's thoughts often drift like this, though he seldom lets them off too far. He meanders over the afternoon, the party, the dark centaur and his driver, wondering where they live and if they were actually friends or not. Jean's sleepy mind seems to find this absurd enough  to warrant a little nicker of laughter - a centaur and human. Friends. Oh sure, there's humans like Levi, and to a lesser extent the stable staff training under him, who don't treat Jean badly. There was even his old owner at the breeding farm, a reedy old man by name of Pixis...the one who saw him away with a small smile and a sweet green apple and a call to 'buck up, be a big lad, now.' He'd never treated him or his mother or the other centuars there so terribly, no. 

It just...it wasn't...REAL though. Levi never spoke a word to him like he did with his coworkers. Never gave more or less care t o Jean then any of the other horses in the stable. Pixis was nice enough, but he was running a fucking centaur breeding BUSINESS, a business which his mother and subsequently Jean had been a product of, and then profited from. 

The centaur boy shifted in his bending, a little less comfortable now with all these spiraling thoughts leaving a tight feeling in his chest, like someone trying to cover a hole that was simply too big. He felt...worn. Utterly thinned and frayed in ways that were...kind of heartbreaking would it be anyone else. 

Thankfully, with as much activity as he'd gotten today, depressing thoughts only aiding the feeling, Jean did manage to fall asleep, the ghostly feeling of a harness of iron chasing him into oblivion.


	5. Hunter on the Moor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanji never expected to become a parent - let alone a parent to things that weren't even human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Werewolves? Eh..kinda. I'll freely admit now, this was mostly just an excuse to write out this Fox and the Hound type au. Also, Shinganshina trio.

At first they thought it was the howling of the wind - the storm was surly terrible enough,  and they could hear the moaning of the breeze through the rafters of their house. 

The clock down the hall chimed a half-past hour, though they couldn't be sure of the actual time. Late, they supposed, by the sheer darkness blanketing the room and swarming outside the rattling window. Sitting up, Hanji stilled their breathing to try an decipher this strange phenomenon that had roused them so. It came again, this time for far longer, and much, much more...distressed. 

They were out of bed before the wailing voice - yes, that had to be what it was - had stuttered off, fading into the background of the fearsome storm and lost to it's might. Lighting the bedside lantern and sloppily tying on the housecoat, Hanji raced down the hall, taking the stairs by two to reach the first floor. Stepping into the worn, mud caked pair of boots they wore practically everywhere, Hanji tightened their robe, and threw open the foyer door without a care for the dreadful weather. The wind that moaned in the rafters of the old house wailed as it forced its way in, bringing with it the scent of cold English rain, dirt and soiled straw from the barn. The flame of the lantern in their hand sputtered even in its glass confines, struggling to stay lit against the gale. Steeling themselves, Hanji tugged the door closed and strode out into the night. 

Wind whipped their house robe and long untidy hair to and fro harshly, the little rabbit warrens and holes in the yard they'd never bothered to get filled in a deathly hazard now in the consuming darkness. Tripping along and not so silently cursing themselves each stumble, Hanji almost didn't see the little wrot-iron gate until they nearly walked into it, the wild rose bushes that grew along the bars pricking at their skin. Ah, were at the road already then? 

It was hardly a road; more like a long earth lane, lined on either side with hawthorn trees and dense woodland, quite pretty in the spring but was surly little more then a muddy trail now, as their slipping squelching boots confirmed. Droplets of water spattered their glasses and plastered auburn hair to their forehead, obscuring the minimal light and tilting the nighttime funnily. Lifting the lantern a bit higher, Hanji stood still for a moment, hoping that what they had ventured out here would make itself known in some way.

After a few minutes of silence, the very reason for subjecting themselves to the gale not forthcoming in their presence it seemed, Hanji was about ready to give in and return home. They were soaked, cold, and very tired. Cupping the lantern protectively, the scientist wondered if perhaps they had been wrong - maybe it hadn't been a wailing voice they heard, just the wind playing tricks or a wayward farm animal escaped from it's pen in the storm. Turing away from the black road, they took a step

and something shrieked. 

Hanji too almost screamed at the sudden piercing sound filling he black. Irrational, instinctual fears flashing past their mind, of monsters and demons and all insidious things that go bump in the night. As their heart attempted to beat its way out of their chest, Hanji jerked the light from side to side, trying to find the source of the mysterious crying. It...it almost sounded like...just like...

A baby. 

Three, in fact. Off to the side of the road, almost toppled over into the filthy waters of the ditch, lay a dilapidated crate. Cautiously inching forward, Hanji placed the lantern on the muddy road, and lifted the lid with heasitent, trembling fingers. Blinking up a them with tears and snot streaming down their faces, were three little...puppies. 

Wereling puppies. 

The one who had alerted them to their presence here in this terrible night had brown hair, a pair of fuzzy brown ears and tail to match, along with a patchy, earth colored coat covering other parts of his body. His littermates were much the same, a little black female and a tiny white-blonde boy who was whimpering piteously. They wore no clothing, the thin, dirty blanket the pups' only source of comfort, aside from each other. The rain came down still, though the gobsmaked scientist could barely feel it anymore, mind reeling with a thousand thoughts. 

Werelings were...supposed to be extinct in England - in the majority of Europe, for that matter. Long ago, they had been a huge race of peoples (of a sort.) They were a menace on the land though, a single pack decimating a whole heard of cattle in one go, if the stories were to be believed. Smart as well. Some older folk claimed they'd heard of werelings with enough intelligence to pick locks on barns or trick careless farmers while the rest pilfered the feilds and flocks. Hanji themselves had always considered these tales dubious - no-one had even seen a wereling of any sort over fifty years, outside of some zoo or sideshow attraction or private manageree somewhere. 

To find not one but three young puppies left abandoned on the side of the road in the middle of a cold, dreary night, miles away from any forest or moor or any wild place a wereling might see fit to inhabit...

A long, dreadful holler burst forth from the little brown puppy's mouth, forcibly shaking the swirling thoughts from Hanji's mind. Their scientific brain took over, quickly assessing the situation and gathering all necessary data to make a proper prognosis. Alright, so they had three very young children on their hands. Perhpas not human children, but wereling physiology couldn't differ from normal people to change much. At least, not in the ways that mattered right now. 

These puppies were cold, soaked to the bone, dirty, tired and more then likely very hungry. To wait any longer to take action would be to invite illness, and Hanji would be damned before they saw anything happen to what might prove the greatest scientific happenstance of their lives. And the three little things were so small...Reaching down, Hanji gingerly placed the lid back over the open crate, providing a little protection from the pelting storm, and cradled the box in their arms as they made their way as fast as possible towards the house. 

 

The parlor right off the main foyer was closest. Hanji rushed about in their muddied boots, not a thought as to the mess they were leaving for poor Molbit in the morning, but there were far more important things occupying their attention. The pups, all three now disconcertingly silent, even the mouthy brown one losing what little energy he had left to voice his fear and discomfort. 

The doctor moved quickly, lighting a fire and running off to fetch clean linens and blankets. Oh, food - what would they feed them? Returning to the parlor, Hanji racked their memories of anything they'd read about werelings and their cubs, though coming up with almost nothing. Werelings hadn't been in this country for over hundred years, and having no prior interest in them before, Hanji hadn't seen the value in researching for anything about them, even as a hobby. Besides, what little information there was on werelings was bound to be extremely biased and mostly based on ledgend anyway. 

Frustration at their past foolishness to pass up even a little seemingly useless information gnawed at them as Hanji rushed back out of the room, hoping their guesswork would be enough.

In the end, they ended up heating three little clean baby bottles (proactive but previously unused 'gifts' from some well meaning but utterly obstinant family members) of goat's milk near the hot fire while taking a basin of warm water and the softest cloth they had on hand to clean the werelings. They really were filthy, and the little she-cub's hair was a long ratty mess, the tugging of the comb drawing pained squeals from the little mouth and unsettling the other two. The bath and soft, repetitive motions with the wash rag did seem to calm the three some, thankfully, and when Hanji's fingers wandered too near the brunette's mouth he nipped at them in clear, ravenous interest with blunt little milk fangs. 

And goodness what a production it was, feeding them - Hanji found after a few minutes that the little hands - paws?- weren't coordinated enough to hold the bottles themselves, but if they picked up one to feed at a time the other two would mewl and howl something awful, disrupting their sibling's suckling. It took a fair bit of juggling and almost a spilled bottle, but the exasperated scientist was able to set two of the three pups in their lap while the other they wrapped snugly in a blanket and held the bottle with their free hand. The house was finally silent for a few minutes as the little enigmas greedily took in what might have been their first hot meal in days. 

It was a sobering thought. Hanji was not well-aquainted with children, the closest they'd ever come to being a parent hosting some of their distant cousins for a few weeks for a summer holiday (and the few assorted things their family sent when they figured a not-so-subtle hint was needed to get Hanji to follow a certain social code.) 

To say nothing of not one but three wereling cubs each not possibly older then a year, at most. 

Listening to the pattering of rain as the storm passed through and the quiet content noises of the drowsy, warm pups, Hanji ruled it was time for a mediation from a higher authority. 


	6. Part of Your World...I Wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second installment of Genus, Species, Ichthyosapien! More plot-y, a more about Armin's history with Hanji and Moblit and how he came to work with them. Also - dun dun dun! Problems arise with Marco, now that he's fully conscious. I know it's been a LONG while since I updated anything, but I've been getting back into the swing of things. Thank you for sticking with me!

He'd been working under Hanji and Molbit for almost seven years now. It hardly seemed so long.

Armin remembers quite clearly the day he met the two scientists, and how extraordinary they thought him interacting with the juvenile mers Eren and Mikasa had been then, given that merfolk weren't generally sociable with humans. (Hanji later hypothesized it was because both Armin and the two mers were young, and Armin brought with him the added attraction of food whenever they met up.)

Armin remembers that week, and the years the followed. It was...tentative at first, between the boy who'd been only a little older then thirteen and two adults who loved nothing more then to ask him endless questions about all the things he'd experienced and observed in being so close to two mers. As he was a minor, he couldn't yet work with them at their little aquatic conservatory, but they invited him to come along with them on excursions and help out whenever he liked.

Armin always accepted.

Over the next few years he'd learned the names and personalities of just about every mer that came, stayed, and went from the bay. Mx. Hanji had taken to treating them all like her little family; the more Armin was around the scientist, the more he came to realize just how much they meant that. Life's work indeed. Along with their frazzled research assistant, Armin too came to be part of the biologist's eclectic group, spending possibly more time with the two then with his own friends, much to his parent's dismay. "Can't be healthy, spending so much time with that madwoman and those...animals." Armin liked to pretend he couldn't hear them when mentions of Hanji's perceived gender came into play, or when people called the beings that called the waters off the coast of his own home, 'home', nothing more then mindless beasts that harried fishermen and made the area a dangerous place for children, 'infesting' the water like they did.

Armin also politely refrained from snapping that the mers couldn't 'infest' any part of the ocean as they could live nowhere else but.

The end of highschool was...tense between him and his relatives. Armin was a good student, even with his weekend and afternoons spent combing the beaches and out on one scientific endeavor or another, and his parents wanted to see that academic prowess come to something. Armin, naturally, had been incredibly reluctant to leave the place he felt he'd finally found that felt...right, and in the end, after many confrontations and even a few shouting matches, Armin asked Hanji to take him on as an intern at the facility - and second assistant.

Legally this time.

A few more years passed, and while Armin was delighted to keep in his studies of the enigmatic creatures roaming the sea...well. Afternoons and weekends had had been well and good, but Armin had learned, something of the hard way, just how taxing and...monotonous research and conservation could actually be sometimes. Especially when it was your job.

Not to say looking at seawater pH samples and cataloging fish migratory patterns wasn't exhilarating, but...well, dealing with the merfolk was why he hung around in the first place.

And when it came time to deal, Armin and Hanji had something of a competition who got to answer the phone first.

They'd rescued Jean and some others from a ring of illegal sideshow attractions, reported just outside of city limits. The mer had been in a bad way - skeletal thin, in a tank too small for one mer alone but with three others crammed into the space, the water absolutely putrid. Jean hadn't been old enough to show his adult colors yet, but receiving the clearance from police and emptying the tank to douse the mers in clean water, it was clear the softer, grey-white pup scales had developed some pretty nasty rot.

The three biologists tried their hardest, for almost two weeks...but only Jean survived. Even then it was a close thing, the young male spending almost a month in anxious isolation, lest the scale rot spread to any members of the local population if they set him loose.

It was clear that the mer himself was depressed; while it had been a terrible situation, at least at the sideshow he'd had a pod of two others to coexist with. In the isolation tank, he had no-one but humans. It showed, in his reluctance to eat, even as thin as he was, lying at the bottom of the tank for hours, days - or, oppositely, in the relentless swimming, never resting, going about in circles until he'd swum himself to exhaustion. Random burst of aggression weren't uncommon either, and Hanji had almost legitimately gotten their hand bitten off trying to administer a dose of medication to Jean.

Things did get better, though. His weight gradually increased, and the rot cleared up enough to see that some of his colored adult scales were beginning to show. After about three months of care and observation, Hanji and Milbit deemed him well enough to try and integrate him into the local bay pod.

But god, what a disaster letting him loose had turned out to be.

The young mer had hissed and spit at the three biologists from his transport crate, all the way to the middle of Jinea Bay, and acted no better when they finally released him into the cold waters. Once he was in, though, Jean quickly grew new concerns - as did the scientists watching from the deck of the boat. Jean had been given a temporary tracker, attached just above the fluke of his tail, and from Hanji's computers, they watched as the little green dot, almost lost amidst the incomprehensible colors on the radar screen...traveled in a near straight line towards...

Eren and Mikasa's territory on the far side of the bay.

While, at the time, the three could only watch the carnage from a great distance, they did manage to catch some of what happened, and gather evidence as to the rest when they next saw Jean and Eren.

Jean was definitely the worse off in the fight. Portions of his newly healed scales had been torn off, leaving behind healing pink streaks of bare skin where Eren's claws had gouged him. A large portion of his right ear fin was completely missing, and he was swimming with a wobble. Hanji was almost beside themselves that night, wondering how they could have prevented this or stopped it from happening, when they all knew the truth was, nothing could really have been done. They'd seen the great splashing and heard the shrieks and watched the waters tint red as Eren and Jean hurled themselves at each other in full aggression - not just dominance. To get between something like that would have been madness, not to mention suicidal.

In the end, Jean ended up claiming a little spot for himself, skirting around Eren and Mikasa's turf. The three scientists agreed that perhaps it was because of Jean's age - about a year or so younger then Eren - that he lost the fight so badly. He'd been an untried yearling probably unknowingly challenging the strong two-year adult that Eren was for the rights to territory the blue-green mer had kept for years. Armin thought it a small consolation Mikasa hadn't seen fit to jump in and assist Eren with the wacking-off of the intruder. Jean might have actually been killed then.

Armin and the other scientists continued their observations and Jean and Eren get into more scuffles - though none quite as violent as that first bloody encounter. Jean was wary of Eren, despite actually having outgrown him by a bit now that he was a full adult too. Sometimes, if he was lucky, Armin would get a treat and get to watch the three mers circle and swim together, harassing shoals of fish for a meal or dodging each other's claws in mock-fights. Mikasa always won anyway.

So...call Armin a worrier, but Hanji's idea of releasing Marco into the same environment where even playing resulted in injuries was...dubious.

Armin had concerns, not just pertaining to the addition of a knew, unknown mer into a relatively stable environment now that he knew the sort of damage it could do and how much it could upset the balance.

Marco was...not at all like the others. At least, not where it counted.

Marco trusted humans. Too much. Whenever Armin or Hanji or Molbit would come down to the underground pool where he'd been kept to heal, he'd swim right up to the edge of the water, right into the shallows, turning on his side and flattening his fins. Submission display. It was...comical, almost, for this beast of a mer to be showing deference to little ol' Armin of all people. The only good that could come of that was that a mer what let him touch and push about a bit was easier to handle and help then one like Mikasa who was so damn stubborn and uppity sometimes it was impossible to handle her without a sleeping dart.

But the simple fact remained, Marco shouldn't have been displaying like that. Armin was a small person, anyone could see that, and not the most aggressive out there. Marco should have seen that the first time he stole food right out of Armin's hands when he had foolishly decided to spend a lunch break down by the pool. Marco should have been trying to get Armin to submit to him. But he wasn't. He was so...docile. Not in the same way as Erwin - oh gods no. Armin nor any of the other scientists would approach the alpha mer with a ten foot pole. The way the blond merman lied about, swimming in slow, lazy circles and past all members of the pod belied the terrifying power of earning the right to be top dog for almost ten years. Marco was also playful...but not in the same way as a wild-minded mer like, say, Jean, who's play happened to involve more claws and teeth and he was more likely to keep the toys then send them back to you in a real game, chasing you off if you tried to take them back.

Marco was curious...and always watching you.

Like Eren, he was also curious, but if you drowned while out exploring something new and interesting, the merman probably wouldn't have two thoughts as your corpse sank below the waves. A disconcerting thought, but that was mers for you - they had no respiratory blocks under water or on land, so the concept of running out of substance to breathe was unimaginable. Not like Marco. No, Marco preferred to crawl right up into your lap, chew on your books until he realized they weren't fit for eating - and then snatching them to entice you into a game to 'catch the buoy'. He much rather liked to flash you his belly scales before offering over half of his own food to you because hey, you look like you need that huge cut of raw tuna more then he did, a fully grown merman. He grew anxious when you waded into water that was any higher then your waist, sidling up to you and not leaving your side. Just in case you needed someone to grab onto to keep from drowning yourself.

He was too close and it was deeply concerning.

"Haven't you guessed it yet?" Molbit asked to Armin when he brought up his concerns. When the blond man only looked lost, the elder scientist had sighed, sounding very put-upon. Armin struggled not to remind him who exactly it was getting up at Christ-o'clock in the morning to puree chum and gut fish for their newest in-patient.

"He's been raised around humans. "

Armin didn't know why the concept had eluded him - or why it felt like such a kick in the head when he'd been told, realized and contextualized all these odd behaviors of Marco's with the idea. Of course of course Marco wasn't aggressive towards humans, showing submission and gentleness and hell's bells, signs of the start of domestication. He didn't throw fits, guard food, wasn't touchy about physical contact where scents from hands and other bodies would be left all over him.

Marco didn't care because he didn't know he was supposed to, or he thought it was wrong if he did.

Armin's eyes seemed to be drawn moreso then ever to the long, painful scars on Marco's tail and back. They didn't look new, save fore the ones that had been stitched his first day. Burn marks. No mer alive and raised in the ocean could receive scars from fire a mile under water, even if they felt like visiting some volcanic vents and breathing in some nice toxic, boiling water along the way.

But...who? Where? Were the others in danger because of this? Was it - god, now that Armin's mind was going there was an endless amount of possibilities as to the scope of what Marco might have escaped from. Mers were a highly protected entity despite their complained-about faults by the local fisherman. Not even those who dealt with the black market wanted to mess too much with the creatures for fear of what sort of authority would be brought down on them for it. But...just as Jean and two others had been found in that tank behind an illegal sideshow, that didn't mean immoral things weren't possible.

What if Marco was something of a - a pet. He or his parents taken from the ocean and raised by some high-standing snob who boasted a menagerie of exotic pets. Or maybe he'd come from some sort of breeding facility, and wasn't that a terrifying thought, mers being mass-bred for god-only-knew what. Any of the ideas would explain the scars, as now that Armin was actually looking, couldn't have come from anything but humans.

When Armin broached this topic with his superior, they simply responded with enthusiasm. "But if he is human-raised, then this will be a wonderful opportunity to see how much of mer language and social interaction is instinct and how much is learned social coding! We simply can't pass it up."

Armin wanted to disagree fully. After witnessing the damage mers could do to one another by simply playing and mock-fighting, Armin was sure he didn't want to see a gentle soul like Marco torn to shreds because of an experiment that went awry. If what Hanji said was true and mers were more animal and instinct, then Marco would have no problems. If not...then a simple misunderstanding spelled death.

The secret opening the mers used to enter he underground cave pool had been closed while Marco was healing - they could have moved him to a tank, Armin supposed, but it was easier to keep him in the larger body of water, and since he wasn't recovering from any sort of contagious disease, he...technically didn't need to be isolated. As Hanji suggested, it would be easier to...introduce Marco to the local pod if he already had direct access to them, rather then stressing the merman out by dragging him all over the facility and then letting him meet his own kind.

Either way, Armin was not a fan...but in the end even he had to admit, Hanji's final reasoning was, at least, sound.

"Armin, he'll need to do this eventually. He's a mer, not a baby bird or feral cat you found starving on the street. He can't spend the rest of his life in a bowl. "

No, Marco couldn't. When they raised the barrier to the outside world at the end of the underwater tunnel, just a little to let in fresh water and start to let Marco's scent out, Marco fussed and grew excitable. He knew what it meant, the taste of the sea and the salt in his gills. That was instinct, Armin thought, watching the large mer dip up and down to explore the small opeing to the big blue, chittering to the human occasionally. Marco wanted out.Marco needed out, for better or for worse. In the end...nature would take whatever course it wanted, silly things like the soppy emotions of one little human against all of the power of the ocean be damned.

And...maybe it really was soppy and kind of pathetic...but Armin couldn't help he twinge he felt when the barrier to the open bay was finally opened fully...and Marco didn't spare the three of them a backwards glance.


	7. Bus Stop Philosophy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco said he'd lost his marbles somewhere along the highway. Jean neither confirmed nor denied this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of chapter 2, Wicked Weather. Yay more nomad jeanmarco vampires! I'll be honest, this got long, longer then I'd anticipated. It started as a little quip-y excerpt about vamp!Jean's love of mint gum, but then it got thoughtful...
> 
> Anyway, here's approximately 2000 words of two vampires and one's rumination on his life to date. If it's a bit vague, I'd be happy to clarify anything!

They didn't have much between them. A couple changes of clothing for all weather, save for sunny, that was. Glue, a...flashlight, for some reason, as if they'd need it, first aid kit. You'd think they'd keep a spare blanket or two here, but for creatures for whom sleep was a voluntary luxury to indulge in only to pass the long hours of the day, it would just take up too much room for their purposes. Batteries for watches (and the flashlight), rolls of spare change and an honest-to-god tome of the Yellow pages to go with them. 

Mobile phones for their kind were too risky. Not to mention expensive - could you imagine the service charges for hauling the things across continents?

And buried somewhere at the bottom of the mess, Jean was sure as well, was a pack of gum. The blast of mint was still clogging his senses as he dug about, trying not to have to resort to dragging out every item in his bag to find the damn stuff, but he might have to..

Marco shuffled around beside him, in a way that belied his slight irritation at Jean's squirrel-y behavior. Truth be told, the gum was probably gone, and his nose was misleading him with its lingering mouth-cooling tantalizing, but Jean would be damned if he let it go without full investigation, if only so he wouldn't find a squashed pack of the chewy candy months later when he finally cleaned out the bloody pack and there was still one piece left. 

Marco said he'd lost his marbles somewhere along the highway. Jean neither confirmed nor denied this. 

"Jean.." Marco whispers to his coven-mate, head leaning back against the metal bus-stop bench, digging his hands further into his hoodie pockets. Jean hissed in response. 

"You hush-up. It calms my nerves. If you hadn't rushed me-" Jean grumbles quietly to his companion, only to glance up and meet red rum eyes flatly staring at him, anxiety unvoiced swimming within. 

"If I hadn't rushed you, then that band of hunters would be patting each other on the back at the bar over a successful kill right now. Honestly..." 

Jean huffs, the breath rattling out of his throat as put-upon as the other probably feels right now...and swallows his tongue inwardly as he continues his own little hunt. Quieter, now that Marco has been pushed to his edge today. Er...night. It was true what they said, being around a person long enough really gave you insight into how they ticked. Or how they got ticked-off, as it were. Jean had learned his lesson is handling an irate Marco, and wondered if he really could go a little longer without his coveted spearmint goodness.

Jean also wonders, as he sorts and searches, when he became so addicted to the stuff. He...hadn't been as a huma - er...before. Jean's thoughts falter and little at the errant thought. A ripple in a mirror pool, a scratch on a record. Their Sires said it wasn't good to ruminate too much, and generally Jean agreed. Thinking about _before_ took your mind to places living the life he and Marco did had neither the room nor the time for.

_You just couldn't help it sometimes though_ Jean remembers intoning, bitter and resentful for reasons he could never pinpoint in his new youth. It had been in the real early days, before either he or even Marco, the boy Turned a couple years prior to him, had really gotten a grasp of the subtle complexities of their own new minds and how they fit into the hidden world.

The Legion operated under the ideal that all vampires must choose to be Turned - a life (unlife?) of unwilling immortality-aside-from-getting-killed...or suicide, just didn't sit well with most people, and hey, willing participants created a much stronger task-force anyway. Unfortunately, most of the vampire world operated without human knowledge, and thus for the most part, no rules. Any 'laws' vamp society obeyed were...mostly set up by and enforced by, whatever local coven was most powerful. 

Local being relative, of course. When you hunted humans and lived...plausibly for thousands of years, territories tended to get...spread out. He and Marco, being nomads, had probably passed through dozens of concrete covens' lands without even knowing it, or alerting the group who it belonged to. 

Though Jean did have to admit, the two of them had been unusually lucky, and not just by way of avoiding the owners of certain territories who were known to be less-then accommodating to nomads. First, they got in good with the Legion as humans (even if they hadn't known it at the time), then they both were willingly Turned, saving everyone a lot of time and vamp therapist visits. (Yes, apparently those were a thing, and meeting the Legion's resident vamp-shrink just on principle had been a fucking experience.)

When they had offered Jean and Marco some of their free time if the two of them ever wanted to talk about...things from before Turning, however, it had taken a some very persuasive words from Marco to turn Jean away before he did something he'd come to regret.

Jean sometimes wondered if...they had wanted Jean or Marco to talk to them.

It had been a few long, odd years, most of which was spent wandering about the Legion's lands in the blustery, largely inaccessible (by humans anyway) mountains and semi-tundras. The Legion occupied a good amount of territory considering how big the central coven and all its sister off-shoots were, and keeping whole little communities of supernatural nocturnal creatures off the map required someplace humans didn't care much to venture, (though it made logistics of blood-hunting quite the hoop to jump through.) Learning, meeting those who stayed and those who came and went, jumping vampire settlements them. While Marco was already starting to acclimate, Jean had to endure the fact that vampires were quite the roaming breed, and spending hours, days hiking from one settlement to the next was to be a regular thing, even if his new body was more suited for it then any human could be.

Jean thinks that's probably where the crazed idea to start this whole nomad thing came from. He'll never forget the night Marco proposed it to him either, bowling into the tiny cozy sitting room in one of the settlements' underground cabin-bunkers, bringing with him clumps of powdery snow, the scent of the icy moor winds screaming outside, and the idea to trek across the nation to see as much of it as possible.

Good thing they were immortal, Jean supposed.

Not that danger wasn't still very present in their un...lives. Humans weren't stupid, or blind.

With his arm stuck halfway down in his pack, Jen gave idle consideration to Marco's paranoia about Hunters. It wasn't all paranoia, either - it had been a while, but just this very evening, Marco and he had managed to just slip through the sticky fingers of a branch of one of the newer groups. They weren't more then a group of kids, probably should have been back in their dorms studying for an exam or complaining about life, or whatever college-aged humans did these days. Not out lurking in deserted alleyways and by-streets where Jean and Marco and their kind should frequent, looking for trouble.

Jean knew the signs as well as Marco - the two of them were predators now after all, and recognized when a hunter was zeroing in on their prey. 

It had been time to go.

Real shame too. They'd been planning on taking some time to look around the town a bit. Marco had professed he loved these older, meandering historic places, even if the old buildings were still younger then some of their friends back on Legion terf, and those friends could probably tell stories of the days of those building's construction.

Still, personal safety and the secrecy of the Legion was more important to them then any interesting histories. They could always come back.

It's Marco's hand - cold, washed out in comparison from the memories Jean has of before, the little speckles of stray melanin splashed across the skin in constellations unnamed stark against their backdrop like some odd photo-negative image of the cosmos - that causes Jean to bolt back to reality. The sounds to the bus's creaky shocks, the acrid burning of crude oil under the hood and how warm bodies move about him. Lingering trails of scents and heat signatures, each unique. "C'mon, it'll leave without us at this rate. You can't find your gum on the bus." Marco is taking his thin hand in his and tugging Jean up, delving  
into his own pickets for the bus tickets.

He has more instant success in finding his prize then Jean.

The bus is warm as compared to the stop outside, even under the plastic seat shelter keeping most of the cool rain out. It's not totally empty either, a man in his middle ages with cropped hair and mossy scruff covering his chin on one side, and a couple younger women sitting by themselves but near to each other, glancing up from their cell phones to track Jean and Marco as they give the driver their tickets and choose seats near the back with more legroom. Jean doesn't look their way, and rubs his nose at the faint scent of defensive wariness. Only unzips his bag once Marco has sat, and begins his quest anew. His coven-mate looks at him for a moment before signing and settling back into the seat cushions - only marginally more comfortable then the bench outside.

Hydraulic machinery under the bus whirs and hisses as the vehicle comes to life once more, doors sliding closed and lights flickering out when it pulls away from the little depot. Jean's hand makes contact with a little cardboard package as they pull onto the highway.

There's still a piece left.


	8. Can't Destroy With Fire What is Born from the Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> KILL IT WITH FIREEE!! only works if what you're trying to kill doesn't literally live in magical death flames from Hell ninety percent of the time. In other words - Nile meets the demon kids from the first chapter! (Points if you can guess who's who!)

Nile got the courier in the dead of night. Of course. What other time _would_ a message of demonic spawn traipsing across the land as they so pleased come to him?

The scene he came across not half an hour later was just as bad as described in the message, which wasn't terribly surprising considering the message itself had been badly burnt, torn and bled on by the time it arrived to him.

Nile and his scouts remained stationed on the ridge overlooking the area for a few minutes, taking full stock of the situation before charging in as the younger members of his assistance was want to do. The small town was in utter ruins, what little there remained still being actively destroyed by the fellions cavorting about. Most of the humans had fled, knowing there was little they could do in the face of this threat, their homes and farms smoldering in the wake, rubble still glowing bright with the hellfire and soon to be spreading to the trees. That, after taking care of the main problem, would need to be seen to. Demon flame had a nasty tendency to stick around and burn as nothing from earth could.

Still, the more pressing problem remained - the little beasts that continued to dance and yowl under the smoky moon.

Nile's eyes narrowed as he called for a headcount from his juniors, whist he kept a careful track of them himself. There...might have been little more than a dozen or so from what he could make out in the flickering light. THere were a couple prancing about over a few of the roofs that remained intact still - one a freakish mash of human and multiple animals, antlers and goat horns, a lion's tail and hooves. His - it's - eyes, strobed unnatural green and gold as it darted here and there. It's companion fared little better in looks, if not a bit less...random; t's lower half furry with cloven feet and a long tail with a hissing snake's head snapping at anything coming too close, short devilish horns jutting from it's shaven scalp.

Nile stifled his surprised shout as his horse suddenly shied underneath him. Uncharacteristic of his mount, or any of those under his ownership as the animals were bred to withstand the evil auras of Satan's host, but the horse continued to wicker and spook, the others of his posse in similar states of distress.

It was soon plain why.

Tearing almost from out of the shadows themselves, from nowhere at all, came what Nile almost mistook as a brand of lightning streaking across the fields. It left a trail of more fire in it's wake and the scream was deafening. There was another blinding flash, and there was the beast revealed in all it's own horror.

Well, to be accurate, there were two, not just one.

The shrieking had been coming, not from the demon, but from it's mount - a horse, not in flesh or blood, but in stark, bleached bone, the skeleton moving by some cursed magic from it's rider, leaving behind it's every hoof fall fire, thick and oily. The skeleton itself was ablaze, tossing a wild mane and tail of flames, though the eons perched atop it seemed impervious to it;s hellish heat as whatever it touched lit like dry grass. The monster stopped on the far side of the field and with another ear-splitting shriek, turned to make another pass - and Nile got a better look at the spawn mounted upon the hell beast.

One was thin, almost as skeletally so as it's animal, and it's face was hidden by another horse's skull, wearing the bones of the animal as a mask, golden amber eyes flaring with the same hellfire light out from the shadows of the eye sockets. It's hair was partially shaven, tawny in the stark shadows from the flames in the night, and it clutched at the flaming horse with thin, spidery fingers, long tail whipping back and forth bearing no skin at all, just the exposed spinal bones. There was another mounted behind him - and this demon was perhaps of the chaotic crew, the most human in looks alone. His body was of a man's, young, unmarred by sticking on pieces-parts where none was needed. Two small stag antlers grew from either side of his head, and as with his comrades, he wore no clothing, arms wrapped firm about the waist of the skeletal horse's charge.

And then he looked up at Nile, burnt earth eyes finding that which should have been impossible to see in the darkness of the hilltop where the light from even demon fire should not have reached - and Nile was suddenly surrounded by the stench.

Like rotting bodies on a battlefield left to putrefy in the hot summer sun, of fetid blood and sudden, rending death wafted up from the burning village - from the second mounted demon. The man's aids around him were suddenly doubled over, hacking and gagging with it as it invaded all, inescapable. Nile could see more clearly now, himself rubbing at watering eyes and holding his cloak over his mouth, for all the good that did, and in the dancing light, he saw this seemingly inoffensive creature for what it truly was.

From the distance, as Nile had foolishly done so, one might have mistaken the speckles smattered on the demon's skin as freckles, the same any farmer's son grew over years of tilling the earth in the sun - this could not be farther from the iddlic, peaceful scene one might imagine. No...as the demon stared, Nile could see, now.

It was rot, spots and patches and speckles of mold upon the demon's own skin, discolored and blotchy and growing. Leaving behind killing spores of virus with each brush of his legs and feet, this little demon spread the decay from his own body, leaving only the rot behind. Forever dying, yet never dead. Truly a gruesome thing. They would have to be careful with that one, lest he infect and destroy someone from the inside out. None of the demons seemed infected by the killing mold, of course, laughing and joking with the other, urging on their flaming beast ever faster and spreading more destruction, smiling a grey-thoothed grin at the horse skull-masked boy.

Nile, already sickened by the smell of the smoke and demonic ditties they lot were singing and the horrible oder of the ever-decaying body, had decided it was time enough.

Standing suddenly from his crouched position thus informing others to do the same, Nile reached over his shoulder, drew and nocked a silver-tipped arrow, blessed over many times by holy spells and rituals, and loosed. Others followed, and the man grinned as the commotion bellow them stuttered to a halt as glowing eyes blinked up at the men upon the hill, not seeing their downfall slipping through the darkness above.

The demons' screams as the first arrow met it's mark would be Nile's lullaby for many nights to come.


	9. Polaris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is time for Jean to go, to follow his North Star that will lead him to his mate. To his new life, to his destiny. Saying goodbye is difficult, however, when one doesn't even know where that may be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt I wrote for myself for this has been sitting pretty in my notes for AGES and for whatever reason I got the inspiration to finish it today! If anyone has any questions about the au, I'd be happy to clarify! This is a short oneshot after all. :> (oh, for reference, they're not harpies, which is to say, they have two human-like arms as well as wings.)

He wasn't sure he was ready for this.

Everyone he knew who'd completed theirs said they hadn't been either, but such anecdotes were hardly a comfort now.

Jean leered down at the yawning blackness that awaited him, gathering where the trunk of the great tree and waxing and waning line the moon above in the sparse lantern light. He shivered. The floors of the forest were said to play host to a number of great and terrible beasts, one of the many reasons his people had forsaken the earth. Perched precariously as he was on the swaying limb, the thought made Jean's talons cling just a little harder.

"Thought you were out here. Not thinking of taking off without so much as a goodbye?"

Jean nearly lost his grip on the tree, he started so hard. Turning to glare at the two intruders to this private little moment, he flips his wings a few times, adjusting his claws again while he self-consciously smooths his feathers out.

"Didn't think to bother anyone in the middle of the night..." he mutters, but with how Reiner's staring at him, and Bertholdt is looking more flighty...and disappointed then usual, Jean knows that they know that was _exactly_ his plan. Reiner steps forward, his above-average weight, even as a hollow-boned Avien, shaking the great tree limb a little.

"You don't have to do this alone, Jean. We'd follow with you, no matter where it Calls you. Birds of a feather and all that." He smirks, though it's glow is a little subdued, whether by the lightless shadows of the trees, or the situation. "You realize the full phrase is 'birds of a feather flock together until the hexapuma comes', right?" Bertholdt mutters behind him, looking tired, but good-naturally exasperated with his mate's antics. Reiner just shrugs his massive wings.

"Yeah. And then the flock kicks it's sorry puma tail."

Jean almost feels like allowing himself to fall back into the easy, lighthearted banter of the moment. Agree with Reiner that a flock was no match for a nest-raiding six-legged dread woods predator, then turn back on himself in tandem and stand by Bertholdt's ruling of fair-weather friends and the dangers there-in. But...

Jean stiffened where he crouched, Reiner and Bert's distracting conversation and subsequent calls to ask if he was alright drowned out by his own head's buzzing. It wasn't pain...it was never described as painful (if not ignored for too long, that was). It was - it was like a great, invisible wind was sweeping him off his perch that no-one else could feel, tugging at every one of his feathers to the smallest downy quill. Calling to him. Jean forced his eyes up, and found it; the Hub of the Great Sky Wheel. The spirit light in the sky that never moved, and thus, Called others to it.

Jean jolted as primaries not his own rubbed against his, and he managed to turn his face away from the break in the canopy where Her light shone through, to see not Reiner as he expected, but Bertholdt's soft, wise face. Peering at him through the curtain of dark bangs with a knowledge of things someone aside from a Seer should not posses. Who knows, Jean thinks belatedly. Maybe the tall Avien _is_ one of the gifted few who receive visions and learning from a higher power. He supposes...he'll never know now.

"It's time, isn't it, Jean?" the dark-feathered boy asks quietly, though all three of them know it's not a question. Not with how Jean's been restless these past few moon's passings, not with how many nights of late, he's strayed away from his nest and perched on this branch to listen to the inaudible music some distant sky sings for him.

How ready he was to steal away in the night...without so much as a goodbye to his family, even.

Jean realizes, out of everyone he knows, Bertholdt would know best. Know the tug and the song and the inescapable light of the Hub, and the journey that _must_ follow. Bertholdt was not hatched here, in this Aery, to this flock. The lands he came from were far away, even for those gifted with wings. He flew to the Call...and Reiner had answered.

"I need to find them." Jean rasps out, claws digging into the weathered bark below him as if it would somehow keep him from taking off at a moment's notice. "I...I have to go.." he whispers, loosing strength and letting his head be drawn back around to the gap in the leaves, shifting on the slight night breeze.

Bertholdt only nods, and looking back at Reiner with firm expression, the blond too sighs heavily, and steps back as well. Jean can feel his heart tear both ways...this is his home. His flock, his nest. Reiner and he had been friends since before their flight feathers had come in, and when Bert had come the three of them were practically joined at the hip (though Jean never came between something so special as mates.)

Reiner looked on the verge of tears at the thought of Jean having to preform the feats that Bert had told of his own journey, and in a moment of insanity, Jean rushes forward, wings propelling him, not out into the wide world, but into the arms of his two long-time friends. Practically family.

"I'll come back," he promises. He cannot guarantee that.

"And you'll let us know when you find them," Reiner says, sure as the sun rises. Jean doesn't know if he'll survive to see their face.

He pulls back from the embrace, feeling like stones have been tied to his feet, but with a heart lighter then his own feathers. Reiner stifles a sniffle, and takes his mate's clawed hand in his. Bertholdt...he dark steady eyes bore into the smaller Avien's full of hope...and loss.

"May the winds of luck carry you. Fly well," he murmurs.

With a great rush of air, Jean's wings have opened, pitching forward into the dark nothingness below. _This is it.._ There's the moment that never leaves you, where you think your wings will fail and you become stone - but as it has always been, air coils and bends under the Avien's will, and he is _soaring_ , slipping through the tree bows and between leaves like the wind itself. The little splotch of sky hung in a treetop frame growing closer, until he;s upon it - and beyond it. Open air...on a sudden whim, Jean plays chance, and looks behind him. Looks back for a glance at when he may very well be leaving behind forever.

Reiner and Bertholdt still perch where he was not moments before, arms raised in farewell, wings mantled for love, and luck. Jean smiles, flipping his wings to twirl himself in the rivers of cold rushing currents around him, answering.

He supposes he was wrong, then. He is ready.


	10. Obligatory Carnivore - Feelings Included

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco has hunted humans in their own cities by skyglow and muted moonlight. He has stalked, killed, and eaten in the shadows those who he'd readily become the best of friends with under the bright of the day. 
> 
> But even monsters must feed their children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I PROMISE I"M WORKING ON ON-GOING WORKS I SWEAR PLS DON KILL MEH  
>  THat aside, I find there's something interesting about the idea of ghouls as applied here. Jean and Marco as a pair of ghouls looking after a bunch of orphaned ghoul kids who can't fend for themselves yet. It's...a very weird idea, but it wanted out, so out it came. Not sure it'll be getting a continuation.

"Hungry..." sighed the little body against Marco's back, cold nose at his neck and freezing tiny hands gripping with as much strength as they possessed at this coat while they trotted in and out of the street light and shadows.

"It'll stop soon, I promise," Marco hushed, hiking the kid up a little higher in the piggyback hold and stepping up his pace. She was already so small...her eyes had peered up at his from the shadows behind the dumpster red on black, glowing faintly and a small blue tail whipping back and forth as she had bravely sized up Marco, a grown ghoul more than three times her size and weight. How could he just leave?

Jean was really gonna kill him this time...they were barely keeping a lid on everything as it was.

Not that Marco particularly thought Jean would ever put up much of a fight to this - he rarely did anymore, and even then it was less like a fight and more the blond ghoul grumbling to himself as he went to find some clean clothes and heat up some water for a bath. Marco almost smiled at the thought. Jean could gripe and moan and spit sarcasm all the live-long day, but after the sun set and the kids were all put to bed (bed being a relative term here, more like 'put to sleep wherever they found space') he'd take careful count of their stock, their meager pocket money carefully rationed and make a list of anything the kids might need - or want, even. Marco would know. He helped.

There came the sound of footsteps clomping down the small side street at the mouth of the alley Marco and his new charge traveled through, and the man froze, quickly slipping backwards to press them into the darkness, quieting the girl's whimper. The group was...young. A bunch of kids probably no older then Marco himself, laughing and talking like the night was theirs to while away. Marco wrinkled his nose faintly. Had it not been for the stench of hard alcohol and cheap tobacco - amongst other things in their blood stream - he might have found his interest in them more intense, even without the constant gnaw of hunger in his gut. But...well, maybe it was just the fact of having to constantly keep the well-being of children on his mind lately, but he'd always preferred his ah, dinner guests...clean.

The group passed the pair's hiding spot quickly, and as soon as Marco knew they were out of earshot for his stealth (or lack thereof) Marco darted forward into the open. The little corridor of a street was lined with cars and tiny by-way shops and mom-and-pop stores that had long since closed up for the night. Even in the big city with a fairly active night life even this far away from city central, people tended to not want to..well...tempt fate.

Marco might have resented that, if he simply didn't sympathize too much with those who locked up their doors tight just after sundown and refused to open them until the sun had properly risen. (Though, they were often the same folk who'd blame the victims so often displayed on the news for their own deaths, 'walking around outside after dark, what did they expect was going to happen'.)

Marco didn't like watching the news anymore then he had to for such reasons. He usually left that to Jean.

He didn't like seeing the number flashing at the bottom of the screen every morning at promptly eight o'clock counting off the number of bodies had been recovered in the light of day, mangled, hacked at - sometimes fought over with the loser still left lying beside the eaten-at corpse.

Marco grit his teeth and told himself not to get worked up about it right now, as much as he could feel himself wanting to.

_Leaving almost whole bodies around like they mean nothing...What a fucking waste..._

Marco was thankfully broken from this line of thought by the child at his back sniffling against the late autumn chill and tugging a little at his coat. Right, more important things to think about...The man checks down the road, one side, and then the other before moving on, truly jogging now but trying not to draw too much attention from any passers-by. Weaving in and out of small back ways and down sets of stairs, eventually dropping down a horribly rusted metal ladder into a disused service tunnel, Marco made his way back to the closest approximation of home he'd had in awhile.

He was glad he and Jean were generally the only people who knew about this place - they'd spent a long while going over maps of the area, subway routes and construction plans for the area, but had found that this series of bunkers weren't marked at all on the latest maps of the city. Hiding in plain sight seemed to be a theme for their people...

"Where are we going?" Marco tried not to jump for the girl's sake as her voice cut through the eery silence of the dark tunnel, unexpected. He played off his slight anxiety for her with a warm smile over his shoulder. Her eyes, still dark and glinting red under the jury-rigged emergency lights scattered about the walls blinked up at him seeming too bring and looking like she still wanted to cry.

"Somewhere safe. Home. We can get you something to eat and get out of the cold. Have a bed to sleep in. And friends!"

His words had little effect on her, turning her face back into his bare neck and stifling her pained whines. Marco repressed the urge to sigh again and turned back around. He was going as fast as he felt comfortable with, but who knows how long she'd gone without a proper meal - how long it was since she'd been abandoned and left to go feral and inevitably hunted down by...them. She hadn't even told him her name when he'd inquired as a start to build enough trust to get her to come with him, even after he'd offered his own freely, and given her his switchblade so she could feel a little safer around him.

Marco didn't blame her though. He couldn't see any of their behavior as anything more than a product of the environment they'd been forced into. Too damn young, even for their kind...

Even the unreliable light of the emergency lamps gradually faded into nothing the deeper they journeyed into the maze of concrete and metal. As a ghoul, Marco didn't need much light to see - the world above provided more than enough of it to navigate by even in the darkest parts of the city at night, but this was a blackness blanketing their senses like nothing else. A yawning abyss. Marco held the girl a little closer to him as he felt her shiver and shake in aborted sobs, boots scraping over scrap metal and cracked cement by muscle memory alone, scents and sounds of the place alien to any but those who lived there. And thankfully, Marco's senses had never led him wrong yet.

He reached out into black nothingness - and his fingers lights, just as he knew they would, upon a large handle-latch. It would take a human some amount of work to open the monster of metal (even before it had been modified by Jean and Marco). But it gave easily enough under the creature's supernatural strength, swinging inwards with a loud groan that reverberated around the tunnel behind him. Light suddenly spilled over them, as well as heat and a dozen or more scents and sounds all coming from different places.

"Not another one..." came a voice from somewhere above the ruckus, and Marco couldn't keep the smile off his face as he stepped into it all.

"Good night to you too, Jean."


	11. Undertow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How can one sing, when their voice is lost in the pull of the undertow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *glares at 99% finished Like Diamonds chapter*  
> *glares at last updated date*  
> *glares at self*
> 
> I REALIZE IT'S BEEN QUITE A WHILE HAHAHA OMG IM SO FUCKIN SORRY FORGIVE ME IF I GIVE YOU THIS?? but seriously though, more actual chapters of actual fics will be coming out soon. This last one's been...a hump to get over..

It had been clear skies and smooth winds for Jean, up until now. Totally fine and free.

He was following his star, the call, the music in his heart and embedded in his soul since his birth finally singing out. The lands below him had been simply more of the gentle rolls of hills and streams and and endless seas of treetops swaying on the breeze. It had been warm rainstorms with playful eddies of air to keep Jean on his proverbial toes. Crystal nights with the Hub in his sights and the correct star clusters at each wingtip to guide him onward - just like his flock had taught him.

The change had come like a slap to the face - worse - being knocked, as Jean was sure he was, somehow, impossibly - off course.

The storm hadn't appeared so...deadly from where it had lain broiling on the very distant horizon. Jean, still on his perch in the warm evening and watching the sunset fire streaming from behind those onyx clouds contemplated this development with blase mind. He munched idly on a ration of waybread, wondering how much longer he'd be traveling. Where the Calling would take him, and most of all, who he'd find at the end of all this. Why _he_ was the one the Hub plucked up from his comfortable nest and decided to fling him across the wide world while the other merely had to deal with the weeks of anxiousness, feeling their other half draw ever nearer.

Jean sighed as he felt his hunger, as small as even that vital urge had become in the face of the Call these last few days, wane as these thoughts took root.

Reiner had been near-inconsolable those last few days before Bert's arrival. He'd been fifteen, Jean a year his junior. Waiting in the topmost branches of his hometree, eyes always on the horizon day and night. Even if they knew what it was, how special Reiner was for being one of the few to experience this, his family worried. Not all who were chosen to journey succeeded. The result of a bond never properly made - severed before it was even begun and the toll that took on the one left alive...

Brow furrowing in obstinate determination, Jean tucked away the rest of the uneaten meal. He'd made it this far, with little if any problems. This may just be a quest he'd have little to report upon, a story too dull for flock-talk or festival stories to gussy up for fledglings, and he's...alright with that, he thinks. Sure, it was more exciting and captivating to hear tell of folk fighting off wvyrms - great flying scaled beasts, scourges of the air - or braving extreme elements to find their beloved, but Jean's come to realize just how close people telling those tales must have come to the edge of failing. Of leaving behind their destined, devastated mate forever without having even met them.

Jeans stood on the thin bow, looking out over the land defiantly, looking at the miasma lurking on the horizon and finally blotting out the last of the sunlight from the land. Staring at the world, and offering a simple challenge;

_Try and stop me._

~~~

The sky was chaos incarnate.

Jean could barely right himself - at least, find a position in the air that _might_ have been right-side up - before a fist of wind and rain and ice slapped him in another direction, stealing the breath from his pumping lungs. His wings felt useless, like an insect drowning pitifully in a puddle. Worse.

He didn't know where he was. He'd....he lost it. Somehow, impossibly, he'd lost his Call.

The storm had caught him with his guard dropped. Lingering always just far enough away Jean could keep a decent eye on what stars it was blotting out from the sky and how fast. It seemed in the blink of an eye though, like a predator just _waiting_ for something to creep by - Jean being the unlucky candidate in this case - it had reveled itself a wild thing, uncaring, violent in how Jean was pulled right into it by hot, humid updrafts nothing escaped from.

He'd been stupid....oh so stupid, and this was his punishment.

Trying to keep his wings close to his body so as the delicate feathers wouldn't be pulled from their shafts, and perhaps try dipping to a lower altitude to escape the heart of the storm, did little. The wind just found ways to curl under his wings and lift him back up into the mess, whether he liked it or not. Rain whipped at him, needle-like and blowing all directions. Jean was soaking and wind-burned, and there was an odd lightness to how he was tossed about. Although there was obviously more pressing matters to consider, he dreaded to think about how he may have lost one of his packs. Hopefully not his knife. If he made it out of this madness in one piece, he might still need it.

A sudden chilling gust grabbed up the avien once more, throwing his ragdoll body in another direction, his neck aching with the force. And again, it was all gone in an instant. Jean blinked both sets of eyelids at the conundrum

when he was falling.

Sodden wings and clothing, limp in exhaustion, the air currents that had ensnared him only seconds earlier abandoning their prey like he'd never been there in the first place. Taking with them, of course, the one thing keeping him in the air at all. His head spun, or maybe that was just the world around him, a smear of bleak stormy grey and flashes of scudding white. Panic, _panicpanicpanic_ Jean mind was consumed with his imobile body, unresponsive, unable to even save himself. He couldn't find - where - the song, the Call...

Jean's feathers were useless, and as if the gale had decided it wasn't truly done with him, a blast of freezing air whipped around him as he left the deadspace. It barely caught his wings - not enough to slow his downwards spiral but enough for him to realize that pain was still a constant.

The icy currents were little better then the squall that had spat him out. Suddenly his clothes weren't just wet, they were stiffening under the sudden change in temperature - his wingtips forming ice, creeping over the tiny barbs and fusing them together.

Jean couldn't think properly, couldn't even right himself anymore or concentrate above the growing din of absolute terror and pain in his head and heart. The ground shifted meters below him under the dark of the storm overhead, fluid and surreal. Jean thought he was surely going mad. It had been known to happen, old fliers who'd gotten sucked into the same mess Jean had just barely survived only for the power of the storm to drive them loopy. Even now, as the avien saw his death coming towards him, the flat hills swam in swirling waves -

Jean realized his mistake as the first breaker, white-capped and towing flows of ice with it glowing out of the darkness, narrowly skimming his primaries. He didn't have a moment to think of his new misfortune as he slid into darkness, lead waters seeing fit to send him into a new thrashing. Salty water flooded his mouth as Jean tried - for some reason, it was all useless now, he'd...lost - to find the surface.

Wings and feathers were hardly buoyant, however. Jean couldn't even feel his fingers or toes anymore, and his arms and legs burned from being on action for so long, the arctic waters serving only to sap what little energy he had left. Everything was so dark. Dark and cold, and songless; the waves all around him his only music now, beating the avien senseless in an uncaring tempo as he surfaced only to be struck down again...

He was giving up. He could feel it, starting in his dead wings and creeping like the numbness of the bottomless water down to his useless body. Jean felt his eyes sting, and in the endless mire of pain and fear, maybe he thought, he was crying.

Though, that could just be the salt and grit of the sea. It hurt either way.

He'd never get to see their face. He'd never...never get to know their name, or who they were, or where they came from. He'd never get to hear the sound of their voice; marvel over the color of their eyes in the sunlight, or how their feathers shone under the moon.

He'd be leaving them, all alone.

That, perhaps, aside from the deathly water and his failing lungs and motionless limbs, dragged him down the most. He is...resigned. Jean can feeling it all leaving - no light in the darkness greets him as his eyes shut, and only ringing fills his head. Just the turbulence of the violent waves, the slowing pounding of his heart.

The lull of the surf is everywhere...a rhythm that Jean can't escape, can't help but listen to. Perhaps his fleeting consciousness is trying to sooth him in the end, and it works. If he wants to trick himself even more, believe his own painful fantasy, it's sort of like a song, in a way.

The voice of death singing him to his watery grave...

Jean doesn't know what he feels first. He had been fading, chest heavy and mind almost gone. Just a mess of sensations and pain and cold, dark lonesomeness - and the sudden, blaring, all-consuming /song/ so loud, cacophonous almost in it's clarity,

but there's - there's arms, and...movement? And, yes, air, cold, so cold and new and slapping his face and clothes and blowing away streams of water pouring out of the mess of feathers that were but a mockery of his wings on the briny sea winds. The hands - they had to be, though how he knew Jean couldn't tell you at the moment as detached as his body was from his mind - clawing at him, clutching, holding _so tightly _. Too much for the deathly pull of the waves, even. Jean thinks, chest aching, it felt like there was nothing that would keep him from those arms. They'd die for him, they'd kill for him...__

__He was rising...then dipping and rising again, the water wasn't there anymore? Jean couldn't open his eyes even if he had the strength, didn't dare...what if he saw his own corpse bobbing along down below like a broken twig? This had to be death, at last -_ _

___"-elp me! C'mon, I can't carry yo-"_ _ _

__...Death had an awfully young voice._ _

__Something licked at the bottoms of Jean's feet, the waters from bellow roaring up again in their agitated waves under the still-raging storm above, the tongues of the ocean desperate for their stolen meal back but whatever force held Jean kept him from succumbing to their depths again. Something so tight around his chest and so _warm _against his back and in his ears and heart...___ _

_____"-lease! Don't! You have to stay awa-"_ _ _ _ _

____It is no wonder the singing of the great Hub had stopped, Jean thinks slowly as the world begins to return to the blackness of the frozen ocean._ _ _ _

____It's voice had belonged to his savior all along._ _ _ _

____~~~_ _ _ _

____Jean supposes it's indicative how close he was to slipping down death's throat, never mind being caught in it's jaws, when he rises back to consciousness after failing to realize he'd dropped from it in the first place._ _ _ _

____There was no song, but his spirit was calm._ _ _ _

____Warm...and pain. Fuck, it's as if his whole body was waiting for him to wake up to assault him with all the worst sensations it could possibly hope to feel. His wings ached worse then the first time his flight feathers were growing in as a child, and from the sudden bloom of stinging as he dared to try and twitch them, he knew he'd likely lost and broken more then a couple important quills. He didn't go more then a few breaths without weakly fighting the urge to cough against the stickiness his chest, which he gave into more the a couple of times. His head was splitting, his body felt weak and the tips of his fingers and toes were throbbing..._ _ _ _

____But he was...alive._ _ _ _

____Alive and...warm, and burrowed in something incredibly heavy and soft and furry that tickled at his nose where it was pulled up under - enough to make him sneeze, suddenly._ _ _ _

____And someone definitely not him give a small squeak of startlement._ _ _ _

____"Ah! You're awake!"_ _ _ _

____Jean's eyelids grappled with their own weight as a surge of excitement and energy he knew he shouldn't possess at hearing a voice. The same voice the unknown arms from the sea sang as they carried him off. When he did manage to open his eyes, at first it was all blurred, a smear of colors like a child's painting across his vision._ _ _ _

____Then it was...blue._ _ _ _

____Bluer then a clear sky in the late autumn evening, bluer then the highest, oldest mountain ice._ _ _ _

____Bluer then the ocean._ _ _ _

_____How young..._ Jean first wondered as he found himself lost in those bottomless eyes - well, that and he could feel the world around him spinning a little, so his staring probably wasn't total enamorment...and yet. He still couldn't draw himself away. He looked barely older then a boy, the honeygold hair hanging in mildly frazzled clumps framing his face and thin shoulders idly shifting long, soaring seabird wings behind him from where Jean was laid. And it seemed Jean was not the only one to be found taking too long of a first look._ _ _ _

____Those eyes had been looking at him like a dry riverbed takes on water, quick and darting around and filled with an endless greed of want. Blinking, it seemed to break the spell, and magically, the stranger speaks again. _How damn young_ , Jean idly muses again, though it is soon lost under the utter shine of hearing the bell of a voice._ _ _ _

____"I...I was so frightened that you were gone...well. Not gone, but like - like, more sick then I could help. I'm not usually so good at these things, see. Healing people, and not from almost drowning, either. If you'd gotten anymore water in your chest, I don't think I'd have been able to....um... And you were like a deadweight all the way here, and I... I think you did stop breathing at some point..."_ _ _ _

____Jean watches with waning strength as the boy rambles, seeing a clawed, scaly hand much like his own reach up and start anxiously combing through his hair. Suddenly the boy must realize Jean's not able to pay much attention to much more then the comforting sound of his voice rather then what's actually being said, and with another admonishment against himself and some muttering, turns swiftly from the bedridden avien._ _ _ _

____Jean can feel himself beginning to drift. It's like a balm to his core, just hearing the other whisper and fumble about wherever they are. The furs he's been veritably cocooned in feel like a physical weight pushing him back down with as much ease as the crushing depths of the ocean had rage. He lets his other senses tell him about what's going on - so long as he can hear that voice..._ _ _ _

____Woodsmoke, though it's different then he's ever smelled before. Something he can't put a name to within it, reminding him of the scent of the storm and the sea. Herbs, strong and spicy and mellow. The pop and hiss of droplets of something on coals from a banked fire and more muttering and fluttering. A small chill blew through Jean's hair, the tiny draft whistling a little windy moan as it passed. Jean wondered what aery they might be roosted in...A very gentle clinking pricked Jean's attention for a moment, enough to force his eyes open one more time as the shushing of feathers not his own drew near again, along with a salty, fishy smell._ _ _ _

____"It's just broth. I can help you sit up if you need, but you need to eat something before you go back to sleep."_ _ _ _

____The sick avien wasn't sure if he totally conveyed his acceptance around his sluggish movements and through the thick furs, but the boy must have seen a 'yes' in all the tiny jerk of his head, and soon the world was tilting again, and after a long, nauseating moment of vertigo his kind shouldn't have to know, Jean was resting against a wall behind him with the soup pressed to his lips by gentle hands._ _ _ _

____Trying to use his own required coordination Jean didn't possess at current, so Jean let himself be nursed like a downed nestling. The broth was thin but oily, bits of minced fish and bitter greens slipped past and filled him more then he figured such a small bowl would have. In the middle sometime, the stranger switched it out for another of cool, cold water, and Jean was forced to heed his warnings for Jean to take it slow when he almost choked at the laugh in that voice._ _ _ _

____When he was finished, Jean leaned heavily against the wall, and gave the boy before him a long look with eyes burning for mor rest._ _ _ _

____It was killing him. He needed sleep, and time, and to trust this person - _his_ person, which he had finally found after nearly stumbling into Darkness for._ _ _ _

____But he had to know, also._ _ _ _

____"Wh-" the first sound Jean had made aside from his wayward sneeze what felt like forever ago eeked out painfully, and coated with the gunk still in his chest, but with a dreadful cough which shook his poor body, he managed a full sentence._ _ _ _

____"Whass....what's your nayme.. 'Mm...Jean.."_ _ _ _

____If he were in much better shape of mind he might have winced at the slurring, but another, rather frazzled part of him reminded him he _did_ almost very nearly drown, and he was lucky to have breath to speak at all._ _ _ _

____The stranger just gazed down at him for a few puzzling seconds, looking for all the world like he'd never heard another person's name before, or had no idea what a name was...then he smiled. Smiled like sunlight on snow..._ _ _ _

____"Jean...that's a nice name. I think I've dreamed about that before..." he said, airily, as if he suddenly lost the conviction of his own words. Though, even in his state and feeling like he couldn't actually rest until the boy, his beloved, his _/Hub in the heavens told him his name_ there was something about hearing his own fall off those pale lips._ _ _ _

____Reaching back up with some of that now-nearly-familiar anxiousness coming back, the threaded his dark talons through his long hair and ducked his head._ _ _ _

____"I'm Armin. And...I suppose you're the call that's sung to me every night now, huh?"_ _ _ _

____The sky was silent and empty, for all Jean's starsongs were here._ _ _ _

**Author's Note:**

> Damn you writing prompts and boredom. Ah, muse, you fickle thing... Thanks!


End file.
